Strangeness & Charm
by rkolove
Summary: Some things are best left alone. But sometimes you just can't help yourself. Candy fic - told from a 3rd POV. WARNING: SLASH & HET. RATED M FOR A REASON.
1. Chapter 1

Firstly, I am not making any promises that this is the start of something ongoing. Right now, I'm just happy I managed to get this little idea down on paper. There is potential for it to go further and I do set it up like that just in case. But no promises. Although I'm obviously open to encouragement, bribes etc.

Secondly, I feel the need to explain the thinking behind this. Essentially, this is a Cody/Randy story. At first anyway. If it continues, who knows what will happen. However, I'm kinda out of ideas when it comes to writing it from their POVs and I ain't so good with 3rd person. So I decided to tell it from an outsider POV. Now, I toyed with the idea of writing it from a female POV, but then I couldn't see that going anywhere. I then thought about writing it from another wrestler POV, but the only person who popped into my head was Cena. I've never really written anything clear cut from his POV, so I was bit a unsure, but writing it from an OC POV just seemed a bit weird. So you can either a) read it from Cena's POV or b) from an OC of your choosing. I'm sort of writing it from both a) & b), so it's up to you how to perceive it.

Lastly, this won't be a straight-cut slash fic. If it continues, there are ideas to make it a mixture of het and slash, so you have been warned.

Enough from me. I hope you like what I have so far and all feedback, advice, encouragement, good-will gestures are all appreciated.

**DISCLAIMER:** Everyone belongs to WWE.

**DISCLAIMER 2:** Song lyrics quoted at the beginning belong to Laura Marling and are the main reason for this idea bouncing around my head for the past god knows how many months. Also the title comes from the Florence & The Machine song of the same name.

**WARNING:** Slash, language. The usual.

Hope you like x

* * *

_Eye to eye_  
_Nose to nose_  
_Ripping off each others clothes in the most peculiar way  
_Devil's Spoke - Laura Marling

There are some that say you never know what goes on behind closed doors.

And there are some that say closed doors are meant to be opened.

And then there are others who disagree, who say a closed door is closed for a reason.

I truly wish I agreed with the latter. Unfortunately, my curiosity got the better of me.

Or did it?

Maybe it wasn't curiosity. Maybe it was just chance. A coincidence. An unfortunate series of events that lead me down this path.

I should have looked the other way.

But it's too late now. What's done is done and I, we, us have to live with that.

* * *

I close the hotel door behind me and survey the room. Neither bed has been touched and the only bag in view is my own which sits at my feet like a faithful mutt. An empty room means one thing. A drunk room-mate will inevitably return.

I feel old. Gone are the days when I could fight, shower, throw shots down my throat, pick up women, grope, tease and fuck them until the early hours and then roll into the gym fresh as a daisy. These days tiredness over-comes me the minute I step out of the ring. I switch onto auto-pilot and don't dare regain control of my senses until I'm safe and sound in a hotel room.

I feel alone. No-one else seems to feel the same way. And if they do, well, they don't dare show it. Competition is stiff and it's foolish to show weakness. I'm beyond caring. If my time is up then so be it. I'm all talk in the ring, but I ain't fooling myself. I know deep down what I want – an easy life. I'l take it no matter how bad the house, the wife or kids.

I feel pushed to the wayside. I only have a few years on some of these kids, but man do they make me feel past it. The girls too. They don't even look my way anymore. Perhaps one or two will make conversation, but the second someone younger turns up, their attention span soon wanes and within minutes they're pressing their titties up against the new boys.

I walk straight past the bed and into the bathroom. A shower at the arena is always quick and can never be enjoyed. It's a quick scrub under the arms and around the balls, nothing more, nothing less. A one minute job max.

Unless you're _him_. An egotistic son of a bitch, who clamours for every drop of attention he can get. He'll stand there, legs apart, hands on the wall, head down, letting the water pound his back. Eyes closed of course. As if he doesn't have a care in the fucking world. As if he doesn't give a shit that every pair of eyes in the room is flickering nervously between the bare walls and floor and his Greek-like body. He'll give it a good three or four minutes before he'll turn, daring them to meet his eye. And then he'll smirk, pick out a face and blow them a kiss before stalking away, leaving who ever his chosen victim is a quivering wreck.

Some might say I'm jealous. I beg to differ. His arrogance grates on me. His cockiness makes my skin crawl. But on some days he can be the greatest buddy a guy like me could ask for. Back in the day it was me and him who ruled bars and clubs – together we picked off the girls one by one, two by two. We shared hotel rooms, bathrooms, cars, locker-rooms, drinks, stories.

The only thing we don't share is maturity. I moved on. He remained where he was. The new boys crave his presence. They hang on his every word, worship his every move. They want everything he can give them and more. Never mind that there are many others who know the business, who would quite happily take someone under their wing and show them how it's done.

Okay, okay, maybe I am just a little bit jealous. But only a little. And I would never go to the same lengths as him just to satisfy my ego.

I turn on the shower and strip. I step under the hot stream and let it burn my skin until I can't stand it. My own little shower ritual. My skin turns red raw, but the pain feels good on my aching muscles. I twist the knob towards cold and slowly the torturous heat ebbs away into something more sedate. I lather up, rinse and upon noticing a few stray hairs on my chest, debate shaving but decide against it. My body is screaming for it's bed and who am I to deny it?

Shutting off the shower, I reach for a towel and wrap it around my waist. Reaching for toothbrush and toothpaste, I vaguely note the muffled voices coming from outside the hotel room. Soft moaning accompanies it and my only passing thought is that it's been a while since I've made anyone moan like that.

Something bumps against the hotel room door. Hushed voices now. Whispers. I debate telling them they've got the wrong room. Or if it's my unknown room-mate, he's going to have to find somewhere else to do the deed. There are few people I'll let get their rocks off in my presence and the new boys don't quite make the cut just yet.

Securing the towel, toothbrush in mouth, I start towards the room. I've almost formed the words in the correct order, a disgruntled look already placed upon my face when the door clicks open. My hand is on half-closed bathroom door, my face is plain view.

But they don't care. They don't see me. Don't want to see me. Eyes only for each other. I can't help but smirk. One day, whoever this young punk is, will realise that ring rats only have eyes for two things – glory and cock. Nothing more, nothing less. They'll suck you dry before you even know it and then it's onto to the next one.

I decide to take pity on the poor sod, so I move to close the door and begin to count down the minutes until she screams, he groans and she leaves.

A male voice cries out. Begs.

This is new.

And then a cold wave washes over me as another voice murmurs something I don't quite catch. But I know that voice anywhere.

My hand is on the doorknob but I can't quite bring myself to push it to. I'm rooted to the spot, as I watch two shadows grind against each other. I want to re-treat, to cover my ears, to give them some sort of privacy, but I can't help but listen to the grunts and groans.

The sound of a zipper only makes my heart beat faster. He groans his name, louder and louder. A shirt is almost torn open, and I stare in morbid fascination as one dark figure slowly sinks south.

I blink. But I still can't look away. And the more I look, the more I see as my eyes become accustomed to the darkness. I see his face, eyes closed, mouth half-open and my own mouth drops open as I realise who he is.

Not some random. Not a stranger picked up in a bar. The implications, the repercussions aren't worth thinking about.

And anyway, I've got bigger things to worry about.

Such as how my hand is wrapped around my cock, slowly stroking it to life as I stare fixated as Randy takes his latest protege into his mouth.

And how all I can think about is why it's not me.


	2. Chapter 2

So this is the way to do it - write something open-ended so as to force my brain dream up endless scenarios/plots etc. Voila, chapter 2 just appears from nowhere!

So perhaps I was a little bit confusing in my first chapter/explanation/summary. This **really isn't** going to turn into some Cenaton story. I promise you this is **mainly Candy** with a bit of het thrown in on Cena/OC's part. It's all about observation, friendship and self-discovery. Hopefully this chapter will go a long way in explaining the events of chapter one. Please bear with me - it will all make sense (eventually!)

**WARNING:** Hints of slash, mentions of het.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nada.

I really hope you guys stick with this one - promise it'll be worth it! x

* * *

The bed creaks, followed by a rustle of covers and then soft footsteps, passing my own bed and covered head, towards the bathroom.

I wonder how long it will take for them to part ways. If it's anything like last night, I'll be holed up under the covers for another hour or two. Would they even dare to do anything now that I'm here? They probably assume that I disappeared into the night and came back in the early hours, without so much as a glance in their direction. Or perhaps they think their secret is well-hidden, behind doors, under blankets and that no-one suspects a thing.

But in this business secrets don't stay that way for long. People see things. People whisper things. If it takes less than a week to discover who the new girl is fucking, than surely it's only a matter of time before _this_ is dragged kicking and screaming into the spotlight.

And although the how is an interesting question, I'm more concerned with who. Am I the only one who knows? Am I the only one who's bound, against their will, to secrecy for ever and eternity? Because let's face it, this is going to go one of two ways. Either last night was just a one-off, a mistake, something they'll never talk about again or is this only the beginning.

Or is it the middle?

Or the end?

All these questions, and more, have been running through my mind ever since I turned away from the door, dropped back into the depths of the bathroom and tried desperately not to listen as they panted and moaned only metres away.

Not only questions about them. But about myself. And my...

Fuck, what was I even thinking?

My heart quickens. I feel my skin burning as I blush in the darkness, remembering. My hand around my cock, fisting it slow and hard. Watching transfixed as Randy sucked off another guy. Fuck. I mean, what the actual fuck?

I've been wanking off to porn since I discovered the concept. Magazines, videos, amateur shit on the Internet, you name it, I've seen it and most likely split my seed over it. And ever since I was a teenager, blowjobs have always been fascinating to me – whether I'm watching it on a screen or leaning against a wall with a chick on her knees in front of me.

But last night... That was different. Was it good or bad? I don't know. But after all the questions, I kept coming back to the single thought that crossed my mind before I looked away.

_Why isn't it me?_

Did I really want to be in his place? Leaning against the bedroom door, arms frozen above my head, sweat forming on my face and neck as _he_ slithers down to the floor and takes my cock into this mouth?

I shiver. And then shift uncomfortably as my crotch begins to ache once more.

No.

I don't want that. That isn't me.

That's _them_. That's what _they_ do, what _they_ want.

It's definitely not what I want.

I scrunch up my face, silently cursing myself, them, the whole fucking world.

Footsteps pad past my bed once again. Whispers. The rustle of clothes being picked up from the floor. A zipper being frantically tugged up. The door opens. Closes.

Someone sighs.

I turn on my side, my back to whoever is left.

"She's gone."

Of course, it would be him. And what a choice of words.

I pull the covers from my head and fake bleary eyes as I gaze around the room. Randy lies on his back, covers pooled around his waist, one hand idly scratching his stomach, whilst the other thumbs his phone.

"Good night?" I narrow my eyes, but he doesn't notice.

"Mmm." Non-committal.

"It was a bit of a shock." I say slowly.

But he doesn't pick up on the hint. He just smirks, still not looking in my direction. "Never a shock to find them in my bed and not yours."

"Funny."

I wonder how far I can push it. How long before he gets a hint? So many one-liners to hit him with. But as words form on the tip of my tongue, his phone chimes. A genuine smile flashes across his face and he hurriedly taps out a reply.

Placing the phone on the nightstand, he stretches, pushes back the covers and heaves himself out of bed. I glance at the floor as he passes, the smell of sweat and sex wafting towards me. My faces wrinkles in disgust and he laughs.

"That, my friend, is the sweet smell of success."

I flip him off, but I'm too late and the bathroom door closes behind him before he notices my response.

I listen to the shower jolt into life and wonder if he's noticed the flecks of cum on his stomach.

His phone chimes again. I ignore it, choosing to reach for my own instead. I thumb through emails, Twitter, a few messages from friends and family, not letting my gaze drift anywhere else but my own screen.

But out of the corner of my eye I can see the screen flashing again, the case rumbling as it vibrates, desperate to be acknowledged.

The shower is still going strong as I reach over and flip it on it's side so I can read the message.

A split second later I wish I could press re-wind. But there's no going back. This is only moving forward.

The number isn't saved. But there's no doubting who the message is from.

_Love you too. C._


	3. Chapter 3

Firstly, thanks for all the lovely comments and words of support from you all. This story is proving a little trickier than I originally thought it would be, but I'm determined to push on through. I apologise if this chapter isn't the best, but I wanted to post something, anything, before the weekend was out and I wasn't about to let writers block succeed. I'm still laying the foundations, so please bear with me.

Also there is **HET** in this chapter. And I haven't written het in a while, let alone from a guy's POV, so forgive me now lol.

**WARNING:** Het, hints of slash

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing but my thoughts.

* * *

All I wanted was a drink. A quiet drink, to be drunk alone. Enough to knock me out when I get back to the hotel room, not too much to feel the effects in the morning. A simple enough task, right?

Somehow I've ended up here. Y'know the kind of bar I mean – the kind of bar that offers nondescript beer in pitchers and plastic cups, along with a 2-4-1 shot deal. The kind of bar with bathrooms that haven't been cleaned since the 80s, complete with graffiti of a salacious nature. The kind of bar that has a floor you're glad you can't see, because you don't want to know the horrors it will reveal. The kind of bar I loved when I was in my twenties – cheap drinks and even cheaper girls.

Two shots are slid across the bar towards me and before I can protest, an arm is flung around my shoulder and a 20-something rookie begins a 3-2-1 countdown. I down what can only be described as a mixture of cough syrup and mouthwash and quickly lean across the bar to catch the attention of one of the barmaids, the only one who doesn't seem eager to engage with any of us.

She stares at me with big doe-eyes, that keep flickering left and right as she nervously eyes up my new found drinking buddies.

"Do you serve beer that doesn't come in a plastic cup?"

She stares for a second, before she blinks and comes to. "Huh?"

"Forget it. One beer."

She nods and edges away down the bar towards the pump. I watch as some of the other guys tire of leering at her willing co-workers and eye up new prey. She keeps her eyes lowered, concentrating hard on the job in hand. After what feels like an age for both of us, she returns and places the full cup in front of me. Some of it slops over the side, cascading over her hand which she quickly rubs dry on the bottom of her shirt. I can't help but watch as the material turns transparent and sticks to her stomach.

"Four bucks." She holds her hand out, a sudden impatience over-coming her shyness.

I hand over five, my fingers grazing her wrist. She shivers, blushes and quickly withdraws her hand. "Keep the change."

The party has moved away from the bar, sprawled into booths and dark corners. I can already see a flock of girls making the rounds, picking out the easy ones, the ones with money, the ones who are only too willing to fuck now, ask questions later. Or as I like to call them, the naive, the stupid and the desperate. I wonder which category I fell into back in the day. Do I still fall into a category?

Ah, that's too easy. Naïve and stupid. That's me all over. Or is it the other way around? Am I the smart, sensible one and they're the idiots for thinking they would never be caught? Did they really think they could keep it under wraps, that no-one would ever figure out what was going on, that they could continue to lie through their teeth to their friends, family, the entire world?

Because as far as I can tell, no-one else knows. No-one even has the slightest inkling that there is something going on between them. So I am officially alone in this predicament. A predicament I have no desire to play witness to. I don't make it my business to know other people's business. I appreciate a little bit of privacy in my own life and treat others with the same respect I acknowledge that we all have our secrets. And I'll admit that on the night in question, my curiosity got the better of me. But I really wish I could re-write history. I should have gone to the bar instead of straight to the room. I should have downed a few whiskeys, made small-talk with the barman, swapped stories with other punters and then headed upstairs, slightly woozy and crawled into my bed none the wiser.

Fate just loves to deal me a shit hand. Not only am I rooming with him again, my plan to avoid a repeat performance was well and truly ruined and now, to top it off, I can't seem to escape his presence. Randy sidles up next to me and orders us both refills, despite the fact I'm only a quarter done.

"What's up?"

I shrug, taking a long, meaningful swig.

"Surprised to see you here." he tries again.

"Could say the same for you."

He doesn't get the hint. Or if he does, he doesn't show it. I cast him a sideways look and realise he's not even paying attention to me or what I'm saying. Instead, I follow his gaze over to the booths.

In the darkness, I can barely make out the figures, let alone the faces. The only thing clear to me is that one of the girls has picked out her mark and is now perched comfortably on his lap. Her head suddenly tilts back in laughter, at the same time the lights above the dance-floor begin to swivel, illuminating the booths for a split second. There he is, arm around the girl, one hand brushing back her hair as he cups the back of her neck and pulls her into a kiss.

I glance back at Randy, expecting to see jealously, anger or at the very least, narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. But his face is void of expression. Well, void of the emotions I had expected.

He looks _amused_. The edges of his mouth are twitching slightly, as if he wants to laugh out loud. I mean, I guess it's comical, but why would _he_ think it was? If it were me, if it were my girlfriend, lover, whatever, who was kissing someone else, I wouldn't be too pleased about it, secret or no secret.

Did I get this all wrong? Was it just some fucked up hazing? A game? A struggle for power, taken to new level?

If so, who's winning?

I turn away, back to the bar to pick up my re-fill. The barmaid is still standing there, still staring. I hesitate and then flash her smile, my eyes wandering south to where she's rolled her shirt up to hide the beer stain. Her hands twist together awkwardly, as if they're trying to distract from her exposed stomach. I glance up at her face, watch her cheeks turn pink again.

As I raise my glass, amber liquid shrouding my vision, I am treated to a taste of my own medicine.

Perhaps I am all three after all – naïve, stupid and very, very desperate.

* * *

She giggles into my mouth as we both fumble with the room key. Her hand slips over mine as I try to tug it from my pants' pocket and I can feel her fingers press against my thigh. The room key is prised free, but neither of us can hold on to it and falls to the floor. She pushes me away and bends over to retrieve it, her skirt doing nothing to prevent her panties from being revealed. I groan and reach out to grab her hips, my cock straining against my pants. She quickly rights herself, stumbling back into my arms. I nuzzle her neck as she slides the card into the lock and pushes the door open.

Inside, I'm kicking off my shoes and tugging her shirt over her head as she unbuttons my pants and presses hot kisses against my neck. She backs away towards one of the beds, but they're too small, too cramped. I reach out and pull her towards me, lifting her up effortlessly and carry her towards the bathroom. She gives me a bewildered look, before shrugging and wrapping her legs around my waist, her feet slowly pushing my pants south.

Her mouth locks onto mine, her small hands joining her feet as I place her on the vanity unit and step out of my pants. My cock, still clad in my boxers, presses against her thigh, occasionally grazing against her panties as she squirms in my arms. I deftly un-hook her bra, tossing it over my shoulder as my hand cups her breast, flicking my thumb over the nipple until she moans. Her hands slide over my arms, shoulders, down my back, under my shirt. I pull away and tug it over my head, grinning like an idiot as her eyes rove over my chest. I flex and she blushes, crooking her finger and beckoning me towards her once again.

My mouth crashes against hers as I push her panties to one side and push one finger inside her. She groans into my mouth, her hands dropping to squeeze my ass cheeks, as she grinds herself against my hand. I blindly grope around the vanity for my wash-bag, praying that the condom that was in there a month ago, still is. I'm in luck and I extract myself from her vice-like thighs to tug down my boxers. Her legs hook me back in a second later and I thrust into her with a grunt. Her mouth hovers by my ear, her moans gaining speed and volume as I push into her again and again, but my euphoria can only last so long.

The door clicks open and closed. A cold sweat washes over me.

Whispers. Murmurs. Creaking.

And then one sentence that makes my hair stand on end.

"She didn't taste as good as you."

She doesn't notice, or doesn't care. Her hair sticks to her face, her neck. Her eyes are closed. Her cheeks flushed, her body almost limp as I fuck on auto-pilot. Has she come? Who fucking cares.

Her whimpering fades as all I can focus on is the grunting coming from beyond the plasterboard walls. The whispering of names and an echoing howl as Randy comes in Cody's mouth and I explode inside a girl who's name I never got.


End file.
